I'll see that you aren't woken up

(just sleep, the beauty of this place will seep into your very blood i'll see that you aren't woken up)
How can i find my way out? i dug this hole all by myself with "no more poems on napkins" and "i left the notebook on its shelf" and it's slowed to just a trickle now but i wish that it was pouring out because there's so much here to write about. and all the leaves are turning brown they're falling from their branches and landing at my feet, but i can hardly make a sound, a word of adoration, for what's surrounding me.
(make it up from here, but i can't make it up from here, so i won't wake you up, my dear)
And i just want to write with everything inside.